


There's No Place Like Home

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where do you go when there's nowhere to run?<br/>GF 301</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Place Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Gap Filler Episode 301  
> Brian's backstory

 

     Brian opens the loft door hesitantly. Berating himself for the secret hope spawning the butterflies in his stomach, he hates himself for the weakness. Forcing his unsteady legs to move, he reluctantly steps inside, greeted by a silence so deafening it threatens to destroy whatever self-control he has left. He stands his ground as waves of emotion crash over him and through him. Before the next threatening swell approaches, he grimly sets his lips and slams the door shut with a despised, sweaty hand.

     After a deep breath, he’s back in control. Measured footsteps carry him toward the bedroom, and he feels a sudden surge of fury when the open drawers mock him with their nakedness and the closet hangers ridicule him with their emptiness.

     Tossing his briefcase on the bed, he clumsily undoes his tie and flings the Prada suit jacket on the floor. He feels weighted down by his clothes and can’t undress fast enough, anxious to rid himself of their burden. But when he slips into the casual freedom of jeans, he realizes it wasn’t the clothing suffocating him.

     With the bottle of Beam targeted in his sight, he pads toward the bar, the shuffle of his bare feet sending tiny specks of dust swirling in the air. On the way to the sofa, he takes a couple of deep gulps, swiping the dribbles on his chin with the back of his hand. He sinks into the designer cushions, the supple leather a perfect foil for the tension in his body, and knocks back a few more swigs, scowling at the bitter taste. Fueled by a zealous determination to empty the bottle in record time, he leans back and closes his eyes, surrendering to the magic of the burning liquid. Disjointed memories chaotically whirl in his head, as thoughts drift down roads he never again wanted to travel.

_What you did was stupid, Kinney, or to be more precise, what you didn’t do! It wouldn’t have taken much because he wasn’t asking for much. He never did. He wasn’t asking for all of you, just a small part, the part that would let him know you cared and that he mattered._

     A long time ago, he learned that success was all about control. If you could control yourself, you could control others, and then you wouldn’t be hurt. He was a selfish shit and heartless bastard. He always knew it. In his adult life, friends and family took perverse satisfaction in reminding him of that, but it was nothing new. He’d heard it all before. It was just a more mature spin on the repetitive mantra of his childhood.

_After two years, after all you went through, you froze, couldn’t tell him not to go, couldn’t ask him not to give up._

     Another swallow, another grimace and an uncontrollable snicker escapes. He raises the bottle in a salute and drunkenly mutters in the silence, “Well, Brian ole boy, if nothing else, you’re a consistent fuck! You haven’t changed since you were a kid. Still a fucking coward!”

     He startles when his inebriated thoughts don’t concentrate solely on Justin and his leaving, on his defection to Stepfordville, but instead, stray to his childhood. He promised himself he would never revisit that time of his life, never revisit the hurt, but for so many years, hurt was all he knew. It defined him, making him the man he was today. He remembers every image of that past with extraordinary clarity, a series of damaged and broken frames that form the movie of his life.

     He can still feel it, all of it—the sting of the belt cracking against his skin, the liquor-laden slaps across his face, the wrenching twists of his arm, the violent slams against the door frames—all the excruciating pain that reduced him to tearful pleas, forcing him to utter nonsensical promises for imaginary crimes in order to make it stop—but it never did. Why? Because the people who were supposed to love and protect him didn’t.

                                                                                                          ***

     He grew up in a modest house in a working class neighborhood. The slab dwelling, purchased with hard work and sacrifice, consisted of small, nondescript rooms and had a faded plaque over the front door, Home Is Where the Heart Is. Painted a sunshine yellow with immaculate white trim, the cookie-cutter was accented by a well-manicured lawn and carefully maintained shrubs that bloomed heartily in the spring and summer. Neighbors would often drive by on their way to work or church and admire its welcoming facade, commenting on what a _happy_ house it was. Brian hates the color yellow.

     The car in the driveway echoed the gleam, another testament to determination and sweat. Every Thursday, when Jack Kinney got home from work, he not only washed the car but also ran the hose over the exterior of the house. He had been taught to take care of his possessions, and he did that by keeping them clean, free from dirt and filth.

     Joan Kinney was a tall woman with tight lips and anxious eyes who always had dinner on the table at 5 o'clock sharp because that was when her husband wanted it. He got up early every day, worked hard to provide for his family and wanted dinner when he wanted it. Was that too much to ask? After dinner, he would drink himself to sleep, disappear to the local gin mill for a poker game, or bowl a few rounds with the guys. Brian vividly remembers the screaming and the yelling, clutching the pillow tightly over his head to drown out the sound, but they’re etched into his brain. He can’t forget them. Just like he can’t forget the night of the prom. Depending on how bad the situation was, he would escape to Michael’s, relieved to find a momentary safe haven, but only after extracting promises from Debbie that she wouldn’t do or say anything about his bruises, or his slight limp, or the odd angle of his arm.

     On this particular day in his memory, he huddled behind the old oak tree at the edge of the yard, his slim form hidden by its wide girth. With a clear view of the front door, he saw his mother come out and heard her call from the porch, “Brian, it’s time for dinner. We’re eating in five minutes. Get in here.” When she didn’t receive an answer, she called again, her voice becoming more agitated and impatient. “Brian! Get in the house now!” Even before she finished and returned inside, he could feel the fear spreading through his body. He wondered if maybe tonight would be different, if maybe nothing would happen, but he couldn’t count on it, knowing it was wishful thinking. For that reason, he stayed hidden behind the old oak tree, waiting. Through unfortunate trial and error he learned never to go in as soon as she called. When he got home from school, he made it a point to disappear immediately and stay away as long as possible, until the very last moment. He learned at an early age about self-preservation.

     When she reappeared again, it wasn’t just the pinched lips and furrowed brow that signaled his time was up, it was the tone in her voice. “Brian, I’m warning you. Don’t make us wait! Get in here now! It’s dinner time!”

     He only reluctantly emerged from his hiding place when his mother stomped back into the house. As soon as he opened the door, he could smell the liquor, its familiar stench making his stomach clench even tighter.

     Jack Kinney was sitting at the kitchen table reading the daily newspaper, his customary glass of straight whiskey prominently displayed, when his son entered the room. He watched the boy’s movements carefully, making sure to down the last of his drink. With a raised hand, he jiggled the glass in Brian’s direction, the unspoken signal for him to replenish his liquor. That was, after all, his all-important household job—at twelve years old.

     Brian could tell by the flushed face and bloodshot eyes that Jack had started his daily routine earlier than usual. He nervously wondered if tonight was going to be one of _those_ nights. He retrieved the bottle from the sideboard and poured a small amount into the glass, earning a scowl from his father. “That’s not even a proper swallow, boy! You pour a drink like that and they’ll laugh you out of the bar!” With an imperceptible sigh and eyes cast downward, Brian continued to pour, stopping only when he received a grunt of approval. He was replacing the bottle when an out of breath Claire rushed in.

   “Sorry I’m late. I’ll be down in a minute. Just let me wash up.” She was already halfway up the stairs when her father’s voice called her back down.

    “Can’t you even spare a minute to say hello to your father, Claire? Christ! A little respect around here would be nice for a change. A man comes home after working hard all day and it sure would be all family-like to at least acknowledge him!”

    “Hi, Dad!” Claire dutifully recited, her eyes locked with Brian’s.

    “That’s more like it! Now go wash up and get yourself back down here. I have better things to do than wait for dinner because of you.”

    “Yes, Dad.”

     Brian watched his mother out of the corner of his eye during the verbal exchange, noticing she was well on her way to a second drink and smoking a cigarette while she waited for Claire. On rare occasions when he worked up the courage to ask about her drinking, she’d give an enigmatic answer, “Your father’s not an easy man to live with, Brian,” and go back to her crossword puzzle.

     They were seated around the kitchen table, having just asked the Lord for his blessing on their meal. As platters of roast beef, potatoes and vegetables were passed around, Jack loudly related the latest piece of gossip he’d overheard at the IGE lodge the night before. Claire and Brian tuned him out, both singularly focused on working the edges of their mashed potatoes so the gravy would stay in the center indentation.

     Jack paused long enough in his story telling to take his first forkful, chewing with relish. A strange expression came over his face, and a wary Brian saw the dark glance aimed at his mother, feeling her stiffen under the glare. He gave a warning kick to Claire under the table. She was engrossed in creating a vegetable face on her plate and raised her head in annoyance at the sharp nudge. Before the _ow_ left her mouth, she felt it. The tension covered the table like a shroud, sucking the air out of the room. She was never the first one to feel it. Brian did, every time, like a sixth sense, as if a freight train suddenly accelerated, hurtling toward him at top speed. And he could do nothing other than wait for the wreck.

     His father spit the food out, throwing down his napkin in disgust. “Jesus Christ! What the fuck did you do to the meat?”

     If Brian didn’t know better, he could swear he saw a fleeting glint of satisfaction on his mother’s face, but of course, it couldn’t be. She would never do something purposefully to encourage Jack’s anger. That would be sick.

     Claire whispered in a timid voice, “Dad, the meat’s fine—” but immediately held her tongue when he yelled, “Shut up! I’ll say if it’s fine or not!”

     Joan Kinney stared at her husband and answered in an evenly modulated tone, “It’s a new recipe, Jack. I cut it out from Sunday’s paper.” She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin and carefully replaced it on her lap.

     Brian and Claire looked at each other in fear. One of Jack’s many trigger points, in addition to them—and particularly Brian—was his wife’s attention to proper decorum. He often ridiculed what he called her uppity, stuck-up behavior that made him feel he wasn’t good enough, embarrassing him in front of the neighbors.

   “Well, you fucking ruined it, you witch! You and your fancy pants recipe! You think we have money to throw away? You think I break my back every day so that you can pretend you’re so high and mighty?”

     Brian yelled for them to stop, trying to keep the situation from escalating the way it normally did, but his father shoved him hard against a cabinet with a violent punch and snarled, “Stay the fuck out of this, you piece of trash, or you’ll wish you’d never been born just like I do!”

     Shrinking against the wall in sobs, Brian covered his ears as his mother raised her voice. Not shirking from the battle, she baited her husband with equally vicious taunts, as if she wanted to set him off even more. As usual, Claire had already escaped to her room, leaving Brian to witness the verbal and withstand the possible physical assaults.

    The veins in his father’s neck bulged as he ranted and raved. His face an abnormal shade of purple, he upped the hatefulness by pushing his wife against the refrigerator. Rage overtaking all reason, he threw open the back door, flinging dish after dish outside,

     Self-preservation kicking in, Brian seized his opportunity and fled through the opening, running as fast as his legs would carry him. Low hanging tree branches whipped across his face, feeling eerily similar to the back of Jack’s hand but he didn’t care. He ran until he couldn’t hear the shouts and screams, until he was unable to breathe. With mucus from his tears clogging his nose and throat, he collapsed against a tree, muscles burning, and wept.

     Uncertain how much time had passed, he sniffled and reflexively coughed, choking on his snot. He raised his head and heard nothing, the welcome silence a curse and a blessing. It calmed his body and mind, the quiet a soothing balm on his tear-stained face. And yet, it fostered his shame at leaving his mother and sister alone with Jack and the weakness he felt when confronted by his father’s strength and anger.

     _No more,_ he told himself. _No more!_

     On that summer day, Brian Kinney, the carefree twelve-year-old boy, died. He took the fear and pain, the hurt and shame and locked it away with a special key, burying it deep within himself.

     On that summer day, Brian Kinney, the selfish, uncaring bastard, was born with a mental and emotional vow—never to be hurt again.

                                                                                                                   ***

     Brian wakes from his self-induced alcoholic coma with tears streaming down his face, tears he never allowed anyone to see, not even Mikey or Justin. When the mental picture of his blond, blue-eyed lover, _ex-lover,_ crosses his mind, he squeezes his eyes against the pain, but the wet creeps from beneath the lids, leaving a trail of bitter memories. When the tears stop, he opens his swollen eyes, wipes away the salty residue and sits up, his body aching and his head spinning.

     _Control._ He is in control.

 


End file.
